


Sunset Division Episode 1-Mid Watch Part-1

by Firebuff51 (DCMUFics)



Series: Sunset Division [1]
Category: Adam-12, Colors (1988), End of Watch (2012), Hunter (US TV 1984), Multi-Fandom
Genre: Ableist Language, Action, California, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Death, Gen, LAPD, Los Angeles, Police, Police Procedural, References to Drugs, corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 15:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14428836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCMUFics/pseuds/Firebuff51
Summary: Veteran Pete Malloy is partnered with Jim Reed, a young officer just off of probation, eager to prove himself. Brian Taylor and Mike Zavala, two aggressive young veterans, close as brothers, who've just been transferred from South Central. Danny “Pacman” McGavin, an impulsive former gang cop trying to live down his well earned reputation and earn the trust of his partner, Emily Orozco. Rick Hunter, an old school homicide detective who's starting to feel his age. The common thread? They've all been assigned to Sunset Station, the LAPD's newest division.





	Sunset Division Episode 1-Mid Watch Part-1

_ **Sunset Division** _

**Episode 1**

 

“ _Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will_

 _land in Los Angeles.”-_ Frank Lloyd Wright

 

 

“I keep having this dream. Had it on and off for years actually, but it finally popped up again.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

The golden rays of the early morning sun had begun to stretch out over the Los Angeles basin as the unmarked Crown Vic traversed the half empty boulevards.

 

Rick Hunter glanced over at his partner who was preoccupied with his iPhone.

 

“Hey asshole, am I talkin' to myself here or what?”

 

Tucker Pace nodded slowly without looking up.

 

“You have this dream.”

 

“I keep having this dream,” Hunter continued as he guided the sedan. “Some asshole breaks into my house. I grab my .357 from the dresser...”

 

“You still have a .357?” Pace looked up from his phone.

 

“Yeah. Smith & Wesson. Keep it for home protection since they don't let us carry wheel guns anymore. Anyway, can I continue, please? “

 

Pace nodded and returned his attention to his phone.

 

“I go for my gun and I can see this guy's got a knife. I think he's gonna run at me, so I squeeze the trigger, only it doesn't move. I can't fire my gun. Damnedest thing. I have that dream all the time.”

 

Pace tucked the phone into his jacket pocket as they approached a mass of flashing red and blue lights.

 

“Typical cop dream,” he sighed.

 

“Yeah? So what's it mean?”

 

“In your case?”

 

“Yeah dipshit, in _my_ case,” Hunter always spoke as if he had no patience for anything that his partner ever said.

 

“Probably means you're just worried that you can't get it up anymore.”

 

“Fuck you,” Hunter chuckled as he pulled to the curb.

 

He slipped on his jacket as they emerged from the sedan. They were a mismatched pair. Hunter was a tall, fifty-year old white guy who somehow managed to maintain the same muscular physique he had when he played college football. By contrast, Pace was black, in his mid-thirties, two inches shorter and slightly barrel chested.

 

They flashed their shields and checked in with the uniform guarding the crime scene before ducking under the yellow police line tape which had been used to block off the intersection.

 

A tall patrol officer wearing the double stripes of a P-3, stood ten feet away from the crosswalk where a plastic yellow blanket covered a corpse. He bit into his breakfast burrito carefully, so as not to drip any salsa on the crime scene.

 

“Elvis, what've we got?” asked Hunter.

 

“Well,” the gray-haired officer chewed thoughtfully. “Looks like somebody killed this guy.”

 

“Oh, so that's where all this blood came from,” Hunter smirked, glancing back at Pace for a reaction that never came. “My partner. What a humorless young man.”

 

“We got any wits?” asked Pace, flipping open his leather binder.

 

The officer held up one finger as he swallowed.

 

“One. Guy was comin' out of the coffeehouse down there, says he sees this dude jog right up to this black kid in the crosswalk. He pulls a gun, blasts the kid once in the back of the head, then after he drops, he caps him two more times on the ground, then jogs off up San Pedro like it was no big deal.”

 

“Is he our only witness?” asked Hunter.

 

The big cop nodded as he took another bite of his burrito.

 

“Only one we've been able to shake loose so far. Skitch's got him back at our shop. We're still canvassing. Watch Commander held a few guys over from Watch 3 to help out.”

 

“Did he give a description?” asked Pace, not looking up from his binder as he copied down the information.

 

“Average height, average weight. Gray tracksuit. Couldn't tell the race.”

 

“Well, that helps a lot,” Hunter sighed, stretching on a pair of exam gloves.

 

He knelt and lifted the blanket to reveal the body of a young African-American man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He had died with his eyes open, mouth agape; a shocked expression on his face.

 

“Close range gunshot wound to the back of the head. One to the upper left back, below the shoulder blade; one more to the small of the back, right above the waist. Vic's still got his wallet, his jewelry. This shit looks like a hit.”

 

Pace stood beside his partner, staring down at the young man's body. He pulled the cell phone from his coat pocket and began to snap pictures of the crime scene.

 

Hunter waited for him to finish, then replaced the blanket over the body and stripped off his gloves as he stood.

 

“Where the fuck is the coroner's guy? I wanna roll this kid, see if we can find out who he is.”

 

The patrol officer shrugged as he wiped his mouth.

 

“Flu bug's goin' around. Heard they're short on guys.”

 

Pace gestured with his notebook.

 

“Okay, well, we've got banks on two corners. Gotta have some security cameras that picked up something. We can hit 'em when they open.”

 

“Works for me,” Hunter nodded as he stared at the body for a second before changing his gaze towards the far end of the street. “You believe this shit? This kid gets clipped three blocks from Sunset Station. City's goin' to hell, Tuck. I swear to God.”

 

“ _ **Mid Watch-Part 1”**_

 

LAPD Sunset Station.

 

Pete Malloy rounded the corner and made his way down another one of the gleaming, natural lit hallways of the still new police station. He held his war bag in his right hand, heavy with any gear and extra equipment that he may need in the field. In his left hand, he carried two freshly dry-cleaned uniforms, draped over his shoulder.

 

Julius Rideout, a 6'4” African-American patrol sergeant with a shaved head and thin mustache stepped into the hall from one of the offices and threw his hands up.

 

“Oh shit! There he is!” he called, a toothpick perpetually resting on his lower lip.

 

“What's up, Ride?” Malloy smiled, dropping his bag so he could shake hands with the sergeant.

 

“Welcome back, son. How was Tahoe?”

 

“Calm,” Malloy sighed. “Relaxing. I miss anything?”  
  
“Not really. Same ol' bullshit. You straight? Got your head in the right place?”

 

“Julius, what kind of question is that? Of course I'm straight.”

 

Rideout folded his arms and stared at him sideways.

 

“Alright, Pete. I'm sayin', though. After what happened...”

 

Malloy picked up his bag.

 

“I appreciate it, but I'm good, Sarge. I swear. I'm gonna be late for roll call if I don't hurry up.”

 

“Alright, brotha,” Rideout slapped his shoulder as he stepped past him. “I'll buy you a beer after watch. Welcome back.”

 

Malloy nodded and pushed through the swinging door of the locker room. Most of the coppers on Watch 4 were starting to clear out and head to roll call, so he found his locker and quickly dressed.

 

He was sick of people asking him questions. He was sick of well-intentioned colleagues checking up on him. It had been over a month since he had been forced to shoot and kill a fifteen year old boy, a boy who had left behind a note in his bedroom that night making clear his intentions to commit suicide by pointing his father's empty gun at a police officer.

 

Malloy had no choice. The investigation cleared him. It was a clean shoot. He still felt shitty about it.

 

XXXXXX

 

Watch 4 roll call.

 

Sergeant Melvin Nishioka, a short, gray haired man of Hawaiian-Japanese descent, wearing half glasses, sat at a table on a raised platform at the front of the roll call room, recounting any crimes of note that had occurred during the prior watch. Sergeant Rideout stood near the door, his hands clasped before him. The uniformed officers sat at several long tables copying down the information, drinking coffee or energy drinks and otherwise mentally preparing themselves for the shift ahead.

 

Jim Reed, a newly minted P-2, looked around the room, feeling very much like a kid at a new school. He was relieved to have completed his probation and was looking forward to a fresh start at a new station.

 

Malloy sat two tables behind him, eagerly waiting for the old man to end roll call so he could finally get back on the street.

 

“Next item,” said Nishioka, flipping a page in his binder. “the _Sunset Slapper_ did it again. He slapped a woman at First and Park yesterday around two-thirty. This would make his fifth victim so far. Suspect description again, is a male black, 30-40 years old, approximately 6-2, 200 pounds wearing short dreadlocks. Bring his ass in, folks. The lady he smacked yesterday was a tourist from Germany. A councilman got wind of it and he complained to the Captain, who leaned on the Lieutenants, who dumped on the sergeants and now we're gonna squeeze you guys, because shit does indeed, roll downhill, and woe be to any man who harms a hair on the head of a tourist in our fair city. I don't like the brass yappin' in my ear so I will personally pop for lunch at _Roscoe's_ to whoever catches this asshole.”

 

Danny McGavin, a young looking P-3 with a neatly manicured high and tight haircut cleared his throat.

 

“Do we get cornbread with that, Sarge?” he asked as his partner Emily Orozco rolled her eyes beside him. “Can't have Roscoe's without cornbread.”

 

“Pacman, if you bring in the right guy, I'll buy you all the cornbread you want. Next, Watch-5 had a 211 at the fine check cashing establishment over on Broadway. Loss was $655 dollars U.S. currency. According to the owner, the suspect was a male Hispanic of average height and weight, wearing a red shirt, who left in an unknown direction, so he shouldn't be too hard to find.”

 

Brian Taylor, a P-2 with dark shades resting atop his shaved head, raised a hand.

 

“Sarge, what do we get if we catch _him_? That's gotta rate more than chicken and waffles.”

 

“You,” the sergeant leveled his gaze at him over his lowered glasses. “This next item is especially for you and that delinquent that you ride with.”

 

His partner, Mike Zavala, looked up from his notebook.

 

“What'd I do, Sarge?”

 

“What'd you _do_? What _haven't_ you done?”

 

The other officers broke into knowing laughter.

 

Reed looked around, trying to decipher the joke.

 

“For the benefit of our new guys, let me explain,” Nishioka pursed his lips as he gestured towards the two young officers. “Officers Taylor and Zavala, or as I like to call them, _The Dipshit Twins...”_

 

The room now roared with laughter.

 

“...they seem to find themselves in all sorts of situations, that sometimes defy explanation. They're a couple of real hard chargers, these two...”

 

“Sergeant, I like to think that we're proactive,” Taylor replied matter-of-factly.

 

“We're trying to give the taxpayers the most value for their policing dollar,” Zavala added.

 

“ _Like I said_ ,” the sergeant sighed as he held up an official memo. “From the Office of the Chief, himself, to all patrol personnel. You are encouraged to re-acquaint yourselves with the department's body worn camera policy. Especially, _when to turn them on._ You listening, kids? Switch those damned cameras on before you leave your shops. I know there are times when you need to jump out of the car in a hurry; just remember to turn your body cams on before you do _._ It should be second nature by now. Those cameras have the potential to save your careers.”

 

He closed the binder before him.

 

“One final order of business, Everybody welcome back Pete Malloy.”

 

The room applauded. Malloy hung his head and offered a quick smile, raising a hand in acknowledgment.  
  
“The working ladies down on Vine have been askin' for you, Petey. Might wanna take a swing by and make their day for 'em,” the sergeant continued, earning more laughter from his troops. “We've also got some transfers. Doug Flannery is moving over from Northeast and Jim Reed is coming in from Central. Make 'em feel welcome. Car assignments are the same as yesterday except for Malloy and Reed, you two are Adam-12. Flannery will ride with Gomez, you're X-28. That's it.”  
  


The officers stood and began to file out of the room.

 

“I'm gonna hit the head,” McGavin said as he stepped past Orozco.

 

She sighed and leaned back against the table behind her.

 

“Like getting shipped up here from Newton with you two isn't bad enough,” she nodded to Taylor and Zavala. “I'm stuck riding with that fucking man-child.”  
  
Taylor scooped up his metal clipboard.

 

“He seems like a good cop.”

 

“He's a fucking caveman. He always has to drive, he farts in our shop, he found out I was gay and now he keeps trying to find out if we have the same taste in women.”  
  
“Do you?” asked Zavala, draining the last of his Red Bull.

 

“Hell no. He's into badge bunnies.”  
  
“So are you!” Zavala laughed. “Remember last New Year's eve...”

 

Orozco smirked as she held up a hand.

 

“You know what, screw you guys.”

 

“Have a nice shift, Officer Orozco,” Taylor called after her.

 

She flipped him off as she fell in behind the other officers.

 

XXXXXX

 

“What was your name again?” asked Malloy as he pushed through the glass door and into the morning sunshine.

 

“Reed,” replied the square-jawed officer, following him into the Sunset Station parking lot. “Jim Reed.”

 

“Where'd you do your probation, Reed?”

 

Carrying his heavy, stuffed war bag in one hand, shotgun in the other, with a metal clipboard tucked under one arm, the younger copper had to skip to catch up with his new partner.

 

“Central.”

 

“Really? I came over from Central when Sunset opened,” Malloy called over his shoulder. “Thought you looked familiar.”

 

“I uh...I finished up on Watch-5.”

 

“That explains it,” Malloy popped the trunk on a black and white Charger parked between two patrol SUV's. “I was on Day Watch.”

 

Malloy dropped his own bag into the trunk, then secured the green marked bean bag shotgun inside its bracket.

 

Reed dropped his gear in the trunk, then closed the lid before climbing into the car so he could secure the other shotgun between the front seats.

 

“Toss the back seat,” said Malloy plainly.

 

Reed emerged from the front seat and eyed his new partner momentarily over the roof of the car.

 

Malloy cocked his head to one side.

 

“You got somethin' to say, Reed?”

 

Reed shook his head as he opened the rear door.

 

“No sir.”

 

Malloy looked away and smiled as he nodded hello to a passing officer.

 

“I get it. You think because you're a P2 dog now, you don't have to do the same stuff you did as a boot? Like searching the backseat? Is that it, Reed?”

 

Reed finished searching the backseat for any potential contraband or weapons that might have been left behind by one of the previous watch's customers and found it clear.

 

He closed the rear door.

 

“Nope. I just don't think that you have to talk to me like I'm a boot.”

 

“A year on the job doesn't mean anything to me, Junior,” Malloy replied from behind dark glasses. “If you think you're on equal footing with me or any other copper who's put in his time, just because you're off probation, you're in for a rude awakening. You're still a boot as far as I'm concerned until you give me reason to think otherwise. Log us on.”

 

Reed literally bit his tongue to keep himself from saying anything further. Instead, he climbed back into the shotgun seat and typed he and Malloy's serial numbers into the car's computer.

 

“Alright, then,” sighed Malloy, closing his door. “Let's go have some fun.”

 

Reed picked up the radio's mic as they backed out of the parking space.

 

“22-Adam-12, Watch-4, clear.”

 

“ _22-Adam-12, clear_ ,” replied the dispatcher.

 

XXXXXX

 

Hunter and Pace had eventually examined the video from the outside security cameras of both banks at the murder scene.

 

The cameras captured the killing from opposing angles, however neither afforded a very good view of the suspect, whose face was obscured by his hood.

 

The victim was finally identified as Darius Nichols, a twenty-two year old with an address in Modesto listed on his driver's license.

 

The unenviable task of making the death notification fell to Modesto PD officers when they responded to the address listed to find that it was the residence of Darius' parents. Through their brief investigation, it was learned that Darius had moved to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career and had only been in town for three months. His parents provided his current address which was an upscale condominium complex in the shadow of the Hollywood hills.

 

“I'm glad we didn't have to do the door knock,” Pace said as he and Hunter stepped from their dark gray sedan. “I've only done a few death notifications but that shit never gets any easier.”

 

Hunter pushed back his sport coat as he rested his hands on his hips. He glanced around the neighborhood from behind dark shades.

 

“How the hell can a 22 year old kid manage to live in a place like this? Modesto coppers said his parents lived in a pretty modest place, I doubt they were bankrolling his little journey of self-discovery down here.”

 

Pace nodded.

 

“Yeah, and they said he hadn't had much luck with acting gigs so far.”

  
Sitting on the corner, diagonally across the intersection stood a combination beer garden and art gallery that occupied a weathered and warped metal building with a graffiti mural on one wall _._

 

“Look at that. A beer garden art gallery,” Hunter said as he and Pace climbed the stairs. “Ya gotta love this town.”

 

“Just this morning, you said the city was going to hell,” Pace held the door for his partner. “Sudden change of heart?”

 

They stepped into the lobby and flashed their shields to the guard at the front desk who told them which elevator to take.

 

“It _is_ going to hell,” Hunter said as they stepped off of the elevator after reaching the sixth floor. “That's why I'm still a cop. I love this city, so I'm doing my best to stall its inevitable damnation.”  
  
“Yeah, good luck with that.”

 

He knocked on the door of apartment 610.

 

The door swung open to reveal an attractive African-American woman who appeared to be in her late thirties wearing a red silk robe. Her hair was a mess, as if she had just woken up.

 

“Can I help you?” she asked, suspiciously.

 

“I'm Detective Hunter, this is Detective Pace,” Hunter replied. “We're with the Los Angeles Police Department. Is this Darius Nichol's address?

 

“Yes...” she asked, suspiciously.

 

“Can I ask your name?”

 

“Simone Robbins.”

 

“How do you know Darius?” asked Pace.

 

She folded her arms.

 

“I'm his girlfriend. What happened? He told me he was going to an audition...”  
  


Hunter's voice softened a bit.

 

“May we come inside?”

 

She held the door for them as they entered.

 

“Okay, you're starting to freak me out. Where's Darius? What happened to him?”

 

“Ma'am...I'm very sorry to tell you this,” Pace said tentatively. “but Darius was killed this morning.”

 

The woman stared blankly at the detectives.

 

“Wh...what?” she answered in a quivering voice. “How?”

 

“He was shot,” Hunter replied.

 

She broke into sobs, hugging herself. Pace closed the door, then helped her over to a couch.

 

After allowing the woman several minutes to regain her composure, Hunter sat down beside her.

 

“How long did you know Darius?”

 

“A couple of months,” she sniffed.

 

“How long did he live here?”

 

“For about a month.”

 

“You said he had an audition?” asked Pace, flipping open his notebook. “Where was that?”

 

“I don't know. Some place in West Hollywood, I think. He left early, because he had to take the bus. God, I still can't believe this is happening.”

 

She buried her head in her hands and sighed deeply.

 

“I suppose you're wondering what a thirty-seven year old woman is doing messing around with a twenty-two year old, right?”

 

Hunter looked to Pace who kept his attention focused on his notebook.

 

“No, ma'am...uh...”

 

“We met at a club one night. I took him home and he was good in bed. I'd just been through a horrible relationship...I don't know, we just connected, I guess...oh no. Oh no no no no....”  
  


Hunter looked up at his partner who mirrored the same puzzled expression.

 

“What's wrong, ma'am?”

 

“Tyrell. Son of a bitch. Tyrell did it!” she screamed.

 

“Whoa,” Hunter said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I need you to calm down for me, Simone. Who is Tyrell?”

 

“Tyrell Anthony,” she sobbed, slinking back into her couch. “My ex-boyfriend. He's a drug dealer. He was crazy. I kicked him out before I met Darius. Tyrell said that he was gonna kill any man I went out with after him. That boy got his ass locked up for punching a cop once. I thought I was done with him. Oh God, he did it. I know it.”

 

“Do you know where we might find Tyrell?” asked Pace.

 

She shrugged.

 

“I don't know. He lived over in Echo Park when we were together, but I don't know now.”

 

“Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to hurt Darius?”

 

“No. Not that I know of. Everyone liked him. Tyrell. You get Tyrell! _He_ did this!”

 

Several minutes later, the detectives descended the building's front steps.

 

“Ended up doing a goddamned death notification, anyway,” Pace grumbled.

 

Hunter rounded the front of their car.

 

“You're a homicide dick, Tuck. It's kinda what we do.”

 

They climbed into the unmarked Crown Vic.

 

“This fits our hit theory,” said Pace. “A jealous ex is as good a suspect as any.”

 

“An ex who slugged a cop,” Hunter added. “So we know that he's prone to violence.”

 

“Okay, so let's run Tyrell. It'll probably be a stretch, but maybe we can match a booking photo to the screen caps from the security footage.”

 

“You're far more optimistic than I am, young man,” said Hunter as he started the car. “We're not matchin' dick to that photo.”

 

Pace shook his head.

 

“You ever get tired of being such a cynical old bastard?”

 

Hunter chuckled.

 

“Hey, when you find your niche...”

 

XXXXXX

 

“Have you ever worked outside Central before?” asked Malloy as he guided the black and white Charger through the morning traffic.

 

“Nope. This is my first deployment at another station,” Reed watched the streets pass by. “What was with the welcome party back at roll call?”

 

“I shot somebody,” Malloy nodded towards the street. “You see this?”

 

He slowed the car to a crawl behind an elderly Hispanic man who wore a beige sweater and black slacks, pushing a shopping cart down the middle of Main Street.

 

The old man glanced back over his shoulder and then waved for them to pass.

 

“This should be interesting,” Malloy said as he flipped on the unit's red and blue emergency lights.

 

“22-Adam-12, show us Code-6 on a pedestrian in traffic, southbound Main at Park,” Reed called into his radio, emerging from the black and white.

 

A white minivan honked as it sped past. The old man flipped off the driver and continued on down the street.

 

“ _Senor, esta todo bien?_ ” asked Reed.

 

“I speak English, goddamn it,” the old man replied as he stopped. “Better than you speak Spanish. Same shit since 1962. I go out for a drive and the _pinche_ cops gotta pull my ass over.”

 

Reed looked back at his partner who smiled and shrugged.

 

“Sir, can I get you to move over to the sidewalk, please?”

 

The old man shot him a confused look that easily conveyed his contempt for the officer.

 

“Now, how the hell am I gonna drive this car up onto the sidewalk?” the man gestured to the empty shopping cart before him.

 

Malloy stepped into the adjacent lane and held up his hand to stop traffic.

 

“Sir, pull over to the curb here.”

 

The old man sighed and guided his cart to the curb, then mimicked turning an ignition key.

 

“Driver's license and registration, please,” asked Reed, stepping onto the sidewalk as his partner pulled the black and white to the curb behind them.

 

The man retrieved the license from his wallet and handed it to Reed.

 

“S'new car. I ain't got the registration, yet.”

 

“This is a nice ride, Sir,” said Malloy stepping over. “What year is it?”

 

“Pretty cherry, huh?” the man grinned as he slid his hand over the shopping cart's handle grip. “She's a '72. Me and my brother spent all summer restoring it.”

 

“Is this your current address, Mr. Jimenez?” asked Reed.

 

“Yeah, that's my pad. Look, are you pigs gonna write me a ticket or not? I got places to be.”

 

“He's obviously not all there,” said Malloy quietly as he stepped onto the curb beside his partner.

 

Reed nodded.

 

“License expired in 2012. Why don't you keep him occupied with car talk while I run him? I'll see if he's been reported missing from a home or something.”

 

A red nineties model station wagon screeched to a halt at the curb and an Hispanic woman in her thirties quickly stepped out.

 

“Oh, Dad! Thank God!” she called, running to the elderly man. “Are you okay?”

 

The man's shoulders sank as she hugged him.

 

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he looked up at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Oh no. I did it again, didn't I?”

 

The woman cried and hugged her father again.

 

“You did it again, Dad,” she sobbed. “It's okay.”

 

“This is your father, ma'am?” asked Malloy.

 

“Yes. I hope he didn't give you too much trouble. Sometimes, if no one is watching him, he'll get out and go 'driving'. My husband just left him for a minute...”

 

He handed her the man's license.

 

“No ma'am, no trouble. We'll need to get your name for our report.”

 

The old man shuffled back to the station wagon then stopped and pointed at Reed.

 

“You pigs gonna leave my Impala on the street right here? This ain't a good neighborhood.”

 

“No Sir,” Reed replied. “We'll have it towed to your residence. No charge.”

 

The man nodded gruffly before climbing into his daughter's car.

 

Malloy sighed and keyed his ROVER.

  
“22-Adam-12, show Code 4, Main and Park.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Taylor and Zavala cruised between the shadows cast by the office buildings in relative silence, save for the rattling of the black and white's ballistic door panels.

 

Zavala glanced at his partner from behind the wheel. Taylor sighed as he looked out the passenger window and sipped his coffee.

 

“How long you gonna keep this up?” asked Zavala.

 

“I'm just sayin', man. I don't understand why you gotta hate on my girl.”

 

“I'm not hatin' on her, bro. I'm hatin' on _you_. How can a grown ass man... _a cop_ , listen to Taylor Swift? You don't even try to hide it. Explain that shit to me.”

 

“She's got some catchy tunes, bro. I like happy music. I don't have to fuckin' defend myself to you.”

 

“You know what, I know exactly what this is,” Zavala said, guiding the patrol car into a right turn. “This is all on Janet. Your wife listens to that white girl pop music all the time, it gets under your skin, you can't help it. It's like those parents that find themselves bumpin' the Wiggles when they're alone in the car with no kids. It's conditioning, man. It's not even your fault.”

 

“Oh, Janet doesn't like Taylor Swift.”

 

Zavala shook his head.

 

“Man, don't say shit like that!”

 

“Have you even heard _Bad Blood_?” Taylor looked at his partner. “That shit is _fire_ , dude.”

 

The radio came to life with three quick tones.

 

“ _Sunset units, any Sunset units and 22X22, 211 just occurred, 610 South Spring, at the Starbucks. Suspect is a male Caucasian approximately 4'2”, shaved head, wearing a purple Lakers jersey, last seen northbound Spring from Olive. Weapon used was a knife, loss was approximately $70 U.S. currency. Code-3 incident 1214 and R.D. 2241._ ”

 

“22-X-Ray-22, show us handling,” Taylor responded, keying the radio's mic as he chirped the siren to clear traffic. “Did she say he was four foot two?”

 

“Yep,” Zavala chuckled.

 

They quickly turned onto Spring street and headed north as they searched for the suspect.

 

“Ten O'clock,” Zavala called as he accelerated.

 

“22-X-Ray-22, we've got the 211 suspect at...529 South Spring,” Taylor reported.

 

The diminutive suspect had been jogging down the sidewalk when he turned to see a black and white speed to a stop in the opposing traffic lanes.

 

“Freeze!” Taylor shouted as he stepped from the car.

 

The suspect darted into traffic and ran southbound. Taylor slammed his door and gave chase.

 

“22X22, officers need assistance,” Zavala called into the mic as he threw their unit into reverse. “My partner is in foot pursuit, southbound Spring towards Victory. Suspect is a male white midget in a Lakers jersey.”

 

Several blocks away, McGavin burst into laughter as he gunned the engine of the patrol SUV.

 

“22A44, show us backing 22X22, Code-3, eastbound Fourth approaching Spring,” replied Orozco as she hit the siren. “Did I hear Z right?”

 

“Leave it to those two knuckleheads to get into a foot chase with a dwarf,” McGavin chuckled.

 

The suspect crossed the street and continued running down the sidewalk.

 

“Stop! Now!” Taylor barked as he closed in on the suspect.

 

Zavala sped forward and drove the patrol car onto the sidewalk, stopping before the suspect.

 

The man turned and faced Taylor, holding a butcher knife at his side. Taylor drew his weapon as he stomped to a halt and leveled it at the suspect.

 

“Drop the knife!”

 

The suspect scowled at Taylor, breathing heavily.

 

“Drop the goddamned knife!” Taylor barked again. “I _will_ shoot you!”

 

The suspect tossed the knife aside and dropped to the pavement. Taylor kept his gun trained on him as his partner searched the man and handcuffed him.

 

The SUV wailed to a stop at the curb, facing the opposite direction.

 

“22-X-Ray-22, you can show Code-4, Spring and Victory,” Taylor called into his radio as he holstered his pistol. “One in custody.”

 

“You guys good?” asked Orozco, stepping from behind her door.

 

“Yeah,” Zavala shoved the suspect against the rear fender of their Crown Vic.

 

“You wouldn't think he could run that fast with those little legs,” said McGavin.

 

“Man, fuck you,” the suspect spat. “Your wife ain't got no problems with my legs. Especially the middle one.”

 

McGavin laughed as he lifted his radio.

 

“22A44, show us clear.”

 

Zavala pushed the suspect into the backseat of the patrol car and closed the door.

 

“You know, you're not allowed to say _midget_ anymore,” said Orozco. “It's a slur.”

 

“What?” said Zavala. “For real?”

 

Taylor nodded, hooking his fingers over the collar of his vest.

 

“She's right, dude. It'd be like calling you a _beaner_ or something.”

 

“Careful, Z,” McGavin laughed. “You might get a complaint in your jacket. A _small_ one.”

 

XXXXXX

 

"Professional courtesy is dead,” Rex Dorsey said, leaning against the cubicle partition that separated his desk from Hunter's in the Sunset Homicide bullpen.

 

“Got another ticket?” Hunter swiveled in his chair to face the lanky detective.

 

“Goddamned Sheriffs,” Dorsey mumbled, taking a sip of his coffee. “You'd think living in freaking Santa Clarita, cop capital of L.A. County, that a guy on the job could get away with a little rolling stop every now and then, but oh no. Twice now, I've gotten stopped by some slick-sleeved millennial shits who didn't bat an eye when I flashed my shield.”

 

“There's your problem,” Hunter leaned back in his chair. “Any copper that's worth his salt lives out in Simi Valley. Place is cop Heaven. Lots of old school guys. Nobody's gonna cut paper for a California stop out there.”

 

Dorsey sipped his coffee.

 

“I don't wanna move all the way out to fuckin' Ventura. If it's so great, why do you live in Venice?”

 

“Because, hipsters and other assorted characters not withstanding, it's a decent area that I could still afford to move to that actually has a nice view. The sea air does my old bones good, and I'll be damned if I move to the Valley.”

 

“I'm from Pacoima,” said Pace as he walked up to his desk located across the aisle from his partner's. “I don't know why everybody hates on the Valley.”

 

“You're from Pacoima and you're seriously gonna ask that question?” Hunter replied. “What'd you find on our boy Tyrell?”

 

“Tyrell Xavier Anthony. Thirty-two. Address in Mid-City. One bust for possession with intent to distribute two years ago, for which, he got probation. Last June he did two months in County for public intoxication and attempted assault on a police officer.”

 

“ _One_ bust for possession? Some drug dealer. No domestic violence beefs? No trespassing?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Seems if he were the crazy jealous type like Simone says, he'd have something like that on his sheet.”

 

“Not necessarily.” Dorsey drained the rest of his coffee and tossed the cup into a waste basket. “You know how it is. _'I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean it'_...”

 

Pace pointed at him in agreement.

 

“ _'Please don't call the cops, baby. I'll never do it again'_.”

 

“Exactly. She feels guilty, doesn't report it.”

 

Hunter sighed as he stood and lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.

 

“Maybe. Just seems kinda off to me. Let's go talk to 'im ourselves and see what's what.”

 

XXXXXX

 

Orozco sighed as she studied the monitor of the MDT, checking for any open calls.

 

“I gotta know,” asked McGavin, hand draped over the steering wheel. “Why do you hate me so much?”

 

She continued to stare at the computer.

 

“Who says I hate you?”

 

“Don't do that shit,” he laughed. “I'm not an idiot. This is our second day riding together and it seems like so far, I'm the one who's done all the talking, outside of whatever capers we handled yesterday. I mean, we're stuck for the rest of the deployment period. Might as well be real and just get shit out in the open.”

 

Orozco nodded thoughtfully.

 

“Okay, fine. You've got a rep.”

 

“I do. I do have a rep.”

 

“It's not a good rep.”

 

“What's my rep? Tell me.”

 

Orozco shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

 

“That you're a hot head. That you're badge heavy.”

 

He nodded.

 

“Okay. I earned that shit. Fair enough. What else?”

 

“You're reckless. You were a good gang cop. I'll give you that. That's why they called you _Pacman_ , right? Runnin' around and gobbling up all those gangsters? But you crossed the fucking line one too many times and you got you and your partner green lit because of it.”

 

McGavin bit his lip and silently stared at the road ahead for several seconds.  
  


Orozco sighed regretfully. She shouldn't have brought that up.

 

“It was me,” he said finally. “They green lit _me_ , not Hodges. The bangers actually respected _him_. Bob got in the way. He took bullets that were meant for me. That shit haunts me every fuckin' day. Every goddamned...”

 

He trailed off. They rode in silence, save for the chatter of the radio.

 

“You don't think I learned something from that, Orozco? Hodges tried to teach me there was a different way to do this job and I didn't listen until it was too late. I'm not that same guy I was back then at Southeast. Say what you want. I'm an asshole, whatever. Fine. But I'm not gonna apologize for not being the kind of cop who just smiles and waves and won't get out of the car. I'm a good fuckin' cop and if you're worried that you're gonna end up in a jackpot because of me, well...you won't. That's my word.”

 

Orozco nodded slowly.

 

“All right. I can respect that.”

 

“Good.”

 

She held up a finger.

 

“Just...stop farting in the car. Your shit is nasty.”

 

He chuckled.

 

“No promises.”

 

Orozco glanced out of her window to see a small child standing alone at the foot of an alley.

 

“Bang a U-turn,” she said, flipping on the unit's red and blue light bar.

 

“What'd you see?”  
  


“Not sure yet.”

 

They circled back and pulled into the alley where a little blonde girl who appeared to be three or four years old, wearing a dirty pink _Care Bears_ shirt, stood and waved.

 

“22X44, show us Code-6 in the alley next to 1543 La Brea,” McGavin called into the radio as his partner stepped from the Explorer.

 

Orozco smiled and crouched before the girl.

 

“Hi! What's your name?”

 

“Mary,” the little girl smiled back.

 

“Hi, Mary. My name's Emily. Do you know where your mommy or daddy are?”

 

The girl nodded and pointed to the far end of the alley.

 

“Can you show me?” asked Orozco, taking the child's hand.

 

She led the officers down the alley which ended in a small parking lot, surrounded by warehouses.

 

An older green sedan sat parked off to the left in one of the three parking spaces. The left rear door was slightly ajar.

 

The little girl smiled and pointed to the vehicle.

 

McGavin cautiously approached the car, glancing into the backseat to see a baby sleeping peacefully in its carrier.

 

He peered through the driver's window to find a blond man behind the wheel and a woman with dark hair in the passenger's seat, both passed out.

 

He rapped on the roof of the car with his knuckles. Neither person stirred.

 

“Hello! Police officer!” he called, pulling on a pair of nitrile exam gloves.

 

“What've you got, partner?”, asked Orozco.

 

McGavin pressed two fingers aside the man's neck to check his carotid artery for a pulse, which he had, albeit weak. He pushed back the driver's eyelids to check his eyes and found the telltale pinpoint pupils of an overdose.

 

Judging from the fresh track marks in the woman's arms, McGavin surmised that she was suffering from the same condition.  
  


“Two O.D.'s,” he said as he pulled the radio from his belt. “22X44, requesting an R.A. unit at my location for one adult male and one adult female, both breathing, unconscious, possible overdose victims.”

 

“Mommy's sleeping,” said the little girl, tugging on the leg of Orozco's pants.

 

“Yeah,” Orozco sighed, forcing a comforting smile. “I know.”

 

_ **To Be Continued...** _

 

_This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, places or events_  
_is purely coincidental. All law enforcement and legal information may not be accurate._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary/Notes
> 
> Shop: Slang for police car. Derived from the number on the roof, known as a shop number which is used by the motor pool and mechanics to keep track of the vehicle.
> 
> War Bag: A duffel type bag filled with any extra equipment/belongings that a patrol officer may need in the field, which could range from a tactical helmet to packs of sunflower seeds.
> 
> Bean Bag Shotgun: A regular .12 gauge shotgun that fires bean bag rounds, used to stun/incapacitate a suspect. Typically marked with a colored stripe to separate it from the shotguns that fire live rounds.
> 
> P-1: Police Officer-I. The lowest LAPD rank. A rookie. Also known as a “boot”.
> 
> P-2: Police Officer-II. Intermediate rank. A police officer could stay a P-2 their entire career if they wish, though many choose to promote.
> 
> P-3: Police Officer-III. A senior officer who wears two stripes and can act as a supervisor when needed. Also eligible for special assignments such as SWAT or METRO.
> 
> Adam Unit: The radio designation for a 2 officer patrol unit.
> 
> X-Ray: The radio designation for a supplemental patrol unit.
> 
> Deployment Period: A 28 day work schedule.
> 
> Code-6: Field Investigation.
> 
> Code-4: Situation is under control/no further assistance needed.
> 
> Code-3: A high priority call necessitating the use of emergency lights and siren.
> 
> 211: The California penal code for armed robbery.
> 
> ROVER: Hand-held two-way radio. A hand-held radio model used by the LAPD in the early 1980's was known as a Remote Out Of Vehicle Emergency Radio.
> 
> MDT: Mobile Data Terminal. An on-board computer used in most patrol vehicles.
> 
> Green Light: To authorize a murder.
> 
> R.A.: Rescue Ambulance.


End file.
